


Worth Every Angel

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a kind of happy ending, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e02 Are You There God? It's Me Dean Winchester, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, M/M, Missing Scene, Porn, Porn w/plot (but only a little--plot that is), Swearing, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean, consensual but rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn’t feel he was worth anyone’s attention, much less God’s, and he certainly wasn’t worth getting his ass dragged out special delivery from hell by his own personal angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth Every Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I got the distinct feeling in this episode that Dean just didn't feel he was worth all the attention, and had to have Sam prove to him that he was.

_Sam: Okay, look. I know you’re not all choirboy about this stuff, but this is becoming less and less about fate and more and more about proof._

_Dean: Proof?_

_Sam: Yes_

_Dean: Proof that there’s a God out there that gives a crap about me personally? I’m sorry, but I’m not buying it._

_Sam: Why not?_

_Dean: Because why me? If there is a God out there, why would he give a crap about me?_

 

And that was it in a nutshell. 

Dean didn’t feel he was worth anyone’s attention, much less God’s, and he certainly wasn’t worth getting his ass dragged out special delivery from hell by his own personal angel.

Sam lifted his head from the lumpy throw pillow on the couch where he’d stretched out under a too small blanket from Bobby’s linen cupboard and looked at Dean over his folded arms. He was sitting in the chair in front of Bobby’s desk with his feet up, a thick book spread open across his thighs and one hand rubbing absently into his short hair as he furrowed his brow at the text in his lap.

“Dean.”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean said without looking up.

“You should get some sleep.”

“’M not tired.” Dean flipped a page and continued to read.

Sam sighed. “Dean, you aren’t going to find what you’re looking for in there.”

Dean lifted a brow and peered out from beneath it. “And I would be looking for information about who and what angels are, so…” He tilted the book back and forth a couple times in his hands, peering at the title. “I think I’m on the right track here, yeah.”

Sam sighed again and sat up, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “That’s not what you’re looking for.”

“Really?” Dean snapped the book closed and brought his feet to the floor with a thud, narrowing his eyes at Sam and daring him to say what was just behind his teeth. “Then enlighten me.”

Sam eyed Dean wearily and almost considered just tossing himself back down on the couch. He was too tired to fight. He’d been pouring over the same stacks of books Dean was all day long, only his had been in Latin because Dean’s knowledge of Latin consisted mostly of the porcine variety and what their father had forced him to memorize for the hunt. 

But there was an itch under Dean’s skin that he couldn’t get at, and it was starting to drive him mad. Ever since this morning when Sam and Bobby had pretty much confirmed that Dean owed his grand reentrance to the corporeal plane to an angel—one that had even introduced himself—and on the order of God no less, Dean had been fidgety, cranky, and borderline obsessive in finding something in those thousands of dusty, faded pages that could explain just one thing.

“Dean, you’re looking for an answer.”

“No, shit, Sammy.” Dean thrust out of the chair and arched his back in an upward stretch.

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Sam pressed his fingers into his temples. This was not going to go anywhere good. “You’re looking for an answer to why it was you. Why did Castiel drag _you_ out of hell. Why were you chosen…because you don’t think you’re worth it.”

Sam half expected Dean to walk across the room and lay him out. His muscles even tensed in anticipation of the blow, but Dean didn’t move. His face just went stone cold blank.

“Fuck you,” he said and turned away toward the pathetically flickering remains of the fire they’d had going earlier that evening.

Sam scooted forward, making to get up. “Dean, I—.”

“Just…shut the fuck up, Sam.”

 Dean walked out of the room and Sam could hear the front door open and close. He was honestly surprised it didn’t slam, but that was just an additional testament to how uncertain Dean felt about where he stood right now. 

“Damn it,” Sam hissed and stood up. He went to the front window and peeked out between the curtains. 

The moon was full and it cast a pale glow across the salvage yard encircling the house. Dean stood propped on the porch railing, head hung between his shoulders, but when he raised his face a moment later the moon glanced silver off of a trail of tears down his cheek.

Sam’s instinct jerked him toward the door and he had his hand out to turn the knob but pulled back at the last second with a soft curse. He stood with his hands on his hips, watched Dean through the curtain swipe at the tear and drop his head back down, muttering to himself, and Sam just stayed rooted to his spot. 

Four months ago he would have chased Dean out into the night, would have yanked him into his arms no matter how much his macho older brother protested, and told him how sorry he was. But he couldn’t do that now, there was too much standing in the way. 

Dean had been furious with Sam when he thought he had made a deal with a demon to get him back from hell, but when Sam had finally convinced him otherwise, the fury had turned to disappointment in his brother’s eyes and just a hint of betrayal. Dean had shoved it aside, so fast Sam blinked and it had vanished, to be replaced by fear when he registered why Sam had been unable to make the deal with any demon. They were afraid of him, and that made Dean afraid, too.

That wasn’t the only thing standing between them, either. Dean just didn’t know about the rest. When he did—when he discovered Ruby and what Sam was doing with her, _all_ of what he was doing with her—Sam was afraid the fragile reunion between brothers would be shattered.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat and shook away the threatening tears. He just wanted things back the way they were, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t give up what he was becoming because he was helping. He was really helping, in a way that the two of them had never been able to before. But the cost…the cost might be the only thing in his entire life that had never failed him, never given up on him even at the price of life itself, always protected him and kept him safe, and always taken care of him since his very first memories began: his brother’s love.

Sam stumbled back a step when the door opened and nearly cracked him solidly across the top of his downturned forehead.

“Jesus, Sammy! What the hell?!” Dean spluttered, having barreled through the door and come nose to collarbone with Sam.

“Dean, I—.” Sam started, but Dean hung a hard left and headed into the kitchen, ignoring him. Sam stared after him, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

He needed to leave Dean alone. He needed to go back to the couch and lay down and turn his back to the room and go to sleep and let the night hide away his cruel words and the misguided assumptions Dean was making because of them. 

He hadn’t meant to hurt Dean. He was only pointing out the truth, and he was only pointing it out because he wanted Dean to see how wrong he was. 

Sam dithered in the hall, heard the fridge door open and close, heard the indecisive scuffling of booted feet on the floor and then the quiet thump of a cabinet door and the clink of glass on glass. He leaned forward enough to see Dean knock back a double shot of whiskey at the kitchen sink and then pour himself another. That made up his mind.

“Dean?”

“What?” Dean said in a flat voice, spinning the amber liquid in the glass a few inches under his nose before sending it down to chase the first round. He huffed out a breath at the sharp burn in his throat—gotta give it to Bobby, he didn’t skimp on his whiskey—and then reached for the bottle a third time.

Sam’s huge paw of a hand landed over top of his as it closed around the bottle. “Dean, stop.”

Dean knew it was pointless to try and get out of Sam’s grip. The guy wasn’t a little kid anymore. They’d long since passed the point Dean could overpower him physically in any way. The kid had grown up. Sometime. Somewhere. When Dean had forgotten to look.

He let out an exasperated sigh and knocked his elbow against Sam’s forearm where it was reaching past him to hold the bottle. “Fucking let go, Sam.”

Sam hesitated a moment, but when Dean’s eyes sliced hard enough to the side that they would have cut him had they been sharp, he unclenched his hand and backed off, letting Dean turn to face him.

Sam pushed his hands down into his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He felt like a kid again under Dean’s stern gaze, kind of like the time he’d gotten caught smoking behind the Gas n’ Sip on the corner of whatever no name town they were in when he was fourteen. Dean had hauled his ass back to the motel and shoved his nose into his Biology homework and then escorted him to and from school for the next two weeks without ever saying a single word aloud in punishment or anger; just using that hard, cutting gaze to let Sam know he’d done wrong.

Sam stilled suddenly and Dean knew the moment he remembered he wasn’t that fourteen year old kid anymore and raised his eyes to look directly into Dean’s. He held it for a heartbeat, looking deep into the open doors of Sam’s soul, seeing everything pent up in him that he wanted to say and would have once but couldn’t find the words for anymore. And that was all right, because Dean couldn’t find the words either. 

They had been floundering toward each other since the moment Sam had so reluctantly relinquished Dean from his arms after Bobby brought him to the hotel room that night after he had dragged himself up through the earth and into the sunlight. A tsunami of emotion had brought them together for a few brief moments, but the same tectonic induced force had dragged them away again and kept them spinning just out of each other’s reach ever since. 

Dean reached a little behind him and picked up the whiskey bottle, bringing it up in front of his face as if debating its further medicinal assistance, then swore softly and poured his third glass.

Sam rocked forward like he wanted to grab the glass from Dean’s hand as he brought it to his lips, but Dean just narrowed his eyes over the rim, and Sam backed down with a soft curse and exasperated hand through his hair. 

“Dean, I didn’t mean that how it sounded,” he blurted out as Dean swigged the shot down, sliding a little against the edge of the counter when he went to set the glass down as the last influx of alcohol took hold in his blood and tipped the scales on his balance.

“Mean what, Sammy?” Dean smiled bitterly. “’S the truth.”

The slur in Dean’s words lent itself to him being drunk and therefore not in any condition to have this conversation much less remember any of it in the morning, but Sam knew his brother better than that.

He reached out and grabbed Dean’s jaw.

Dean reacted fast, jerking back, bringing his right forearm around and over to slam down on Sam’s and dislodge his grip except that Sam was ready for it and caught his wrist in mid-air, holding it for half a breath while Dean struggled before he took a step in and slammed his mouth down on Dean’s.

Dean still had one free arm that he could use to fight Sam off. If he wanted. True it was in use propping him up against the counter while Sam ravaged his mouth like a lion brought to the brink of death and suddenly offered a fresh sirloin steak. He couldn’t breathe—didn’t really want to anyhow—and tried to angle his head a little so he could at least suck in half a breath through his nose. Sam’s hand let go of his jaw and wrapped around the back of his neck, jerking him closer. His other hand threw down Dean’s wrist and opted for his waistband, giving it a firm tug until Dean was settled unerringly between Sam’s long thighs and pinned thoroughly against the counter.

Dean didn’t remember Sam having this kind of passion. Well, no…that wasn’t right. Sam had plenty of passion. It was the power he didn’t recognize. Dean had always been the dominant one, the one that leaned toward violence in their love-making, the one that took and demanded control. Sam had met and matched him move for move. He was no simpering Nelly—just very emo about stuff like that. Touchy. Sam loved to touch and, yeah, sometimes it annoyed the crap out of Dean, but he put up with it for Sam’s sake, knowing he needed at least a little illusion of gentle in their sometimes brutal lives. 

Sam was touching now, but it sure as hell wasn’t gentle.

Dean moaned against his brother’s mouth, surprised at the depth from which it came, when Sam palmed his crotch and lifted—damn near up on his tiptoes—thrusting him upward so that the counter edge dug hard into his buttocks. Dean twisted his hips and thrust them forward into Sam’s curling fingers.

Jesus, he had missed this! At least he thought he had. He was sure he must have even if he couldn’t really remember anything but the almighty, unending pain. He had missed Sam’s long length stretched against him, those broad palms cupping, rubbing…. 

Dean moaned again and tore his mouth away. Only a fraction of an inch, just enough to breathe, because his lungs felt like they would explode. Sam let him and bumped his forehead against Dean’s, shaking his head arrhythmically at something—only he knew what—and breathing in hot, uneven little puffs.

“Dean, you…” Sam had to swallow and lick his lips, try again. “You are worth a whole fucking fleet of angels.”

Dean stilled. Sam swore. Tightened his grip at the back of Dean’s neck.

“Don’t,” Sam whispered. “Just. Don’t.”

Dean leaned back, enough that he could see into Sam’s eyes. He dropped his hand down and pulled Sam’s away from his crotch, brought it up to rest against his chest where he covered it with both of his own. Sam sucked in a breath, eyes welling at the simple gesture. Dean hitched his mouth in a half smile. 

“Sammy, I ain’t worth it. I’m not.” He shook his head to forestall Sam’s instant protest. “I’ve only ever done one thing worth while— _really_ worthwhile—in my whole life.” He pressed his face into Sam’s, forced him to look at him, held his lips a breath away. “You, Sam. Just you.”

Sam gulped and the tears came. He bit down on his lip, tried to push back against the sob, and redirected it to Dean’s mouth, devouring him again like it was the last chance he would ever have. And maybe it was. Dean might find out about Ruby tomorrow. The world might end next week. The fucking apocalypse was upon them. But he had _this_. Here. Now. 

Dean’s head fell back as Sam released his mouth to work his way hungrily down the fast beating artery in the side of  Dean’s neck. Sam nipped and sucked and bit at the hollow of Dean’s throat, then licked his way back up in one long, hot stroke to plant a kiss below his ear in that spot… _oh, fuck, yes!_

 _“_ Sammy…” Dean growled, threading his fingers deep into those wayward waves and pressing Sam downward. Sam took the hint, dropped down to his knees and yanked at the snap of Dean’s pants with his teeth, smiling upward devilishly. His eyes were still red and tears were still leaking out, but Dean didn’t see that right now. All he saw was the mischievous twist of Sam’s lips as he unzipped his brother’s jeans and pushed them and the black boxers underneath down and out of the way so that he could mouth the tip of Dean’s twitching dick. 

Dean snarled and wrapped his fingers tighter in Sam’s hair as the younger man opened wide and sucked him down in one smooth motion, making Dean choke on his own air as his stomach muscles convulsed at the intense pleasure and threw him forward. He flailed for a second, reached behind him and gripped onto the counter as Sam hummed approvingly against his full flesh and laved his tongue along the whole, long length of him.

“Shit… _fuck!_ Sammy, I can’t—!” Dean  curled forward, almost in pain at the intensity of feeling from Sam working his dick in increasingly quick strokes, sucking harder and harder. He could feel the orgasm in his guts, doubling him over. He panted, trying to stay on top of it, trying to at least let the moment last a little longer… _for fuck’s sake!_ He was like a goddamn virgin here, coming at the first full sheathing in something tight and warm and wet… _and fucking Jesus Christ!_ When did Sammy learn how to do _that!_

Dean’s knees buckled and he came long and hard, groaning like a dying man—or maybe one finally coming alive again—thrusting into Sam’s mouth until his body was spent down to tiny erratic jerking movements of his hips.

Sam had a hold of him at his hips, propping him up against the counter with just the strength of his arms until Dean could manage to stay on his feet by himself again. Sam pulled off of him, licked his lips, grinned and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. His hair was tousled, sticking out every which way, his lips red and swollen, face flushed, and he looked like the sexiest thing Dean had ever seen.

Dean grabbed the front of his t-shirt weakly and hauled him upward, kissing him fiercely when he came within reach. He gasped and leaned into Sam, letting him brace them both up. He dropped his hands to Sam’s hips and rested his forehead against that prominent collarbone.

“Sammy, that was…” Dean couldn’t find any words. “It just was.”

“Yeah. Pretty much,” Sam laughed breathily.

Dean tilted his head up and to the side. Sam’s eyes were still hungry, dancing with need, but he wasn’t about to take anything unless Dean offered it. Leave it to Sam to pull something so selfless. 

Dean dropped his hands down and forward, cupping Sam’s erection and rubbing it up and down on either side with his thumbs until Sam moaned hard and his face fell into Dean’s neck where he went to work with his lips and teeth, kissing and nipping.

Dean could feel his blood stirring up again already. He rolled his hips forward against Sam’s thigh, elicited the desired reaction of a growl that sounded near his ear and another bite to his throat that was almost painful. He yanked open Sam’s zipper and shoved fabric out of the way, getting his hands around Sam’s length and milking him until he was panting into Dean’s shoulder and begging in tiny, mewling half-words.

“Dean… _Jesus!_ Please…” Sam whimpered as Dean rubbed his thumb over the tip of his dick and circled again and again, making him twitch and jerk.

“What do you want, huh?” Dean teased at his ear, licking the top curve and smiling at the full body shudder that followed. “You want to be in me, Sammy?”

“Yes…” Sam gasped out, nodding his head against Dean’s shoulder. “ _Fuck!_ Yes.”

Dean laughed softly and sought out one of Sam’s hands, bringing it down to his dick where he was dripping steadily and slicked up both their fingers.

What he did next almost made Sam come right there and then. 

Dean turned into the counter and guided Sam’s hand back and down, spread his cheeks open and then pushed Sam’s finger up inside himself. Sam made a funny whimper-howl in the back of his throat and bit down into Dean’s shoulder. He pushed up and in, spreading Dean, opening him. Together they worked his hole until he was loose and hot and breathing raggedly, dick engorged again and jutting out painfully against the cupboards. Sam withdrew his hand which caused Dean to nearly cry out at the emptiness left behind until Sam’s hot flesh replaced it a moment later, pushing up inside him.

Dean wiggled back on Sam’s dick, trying to drive him deeper. Sam wasn’t moving and it was infuriating him with need. He gripped his own swollen flesh and jerked, grinding his teeth and panting hard.

“Dean, slow down…I can’t…” Sam gasped, trying to hold Dean’s hips still. “Dean! _Holy shit! Fuck…fuck…fuck!”_  

Sam cried out and thrust into Dean, pulsing and throbbing until he had emptied himself of four months worth of grief and fear, and need and desire, and regret. So much regret. The world spun away for one blissful moment and left him only with Dean. Just Dean. No Ruby, no Castiel, no heaven or hell, or Lucifer, no apocalypse and the four horseman. Nothing. Just Dean. The only thing he really ever needed.

He collapsed over Dean’s back, only just catching himself on his arm against the counter. He leaned over Dean’s shoulder, reached around and covered the hand that was still pumping his dick.

“Here. Let me,” Sam whispered.

Dean relinquished the quick staccato jerks to Sam’s huge hand and in a few seconds he was shuddering with a second release that turned him jelly-kneed. 

They stood like that for several minutes, moonlight spilling in through the window and catching glistening patches of sweat slick skin. Sam was planting a tiny string of kissed along the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, and Dean was kissing Sam’s knuckles, tucked up under his chin, where they intertwined with his own.

Sometime later, when the volume of their blood had more evenly redistributed itself through their bodies, Sam pulled out of Dean and hitched his jeans up. 

“Jesus, we’re a mess,” Dean said, following suit. 

“Easily remedied,” Sam teased as he licked at his palm, still sticky with Dean’s cum.

Dean groaned deep and low and threw a towel at him. Sam just grinned a thousand watts.

When they had cleaned up and were some semblance of put back together, Dean thumped himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Ugh. Drank too much.”

Sam put an arm around his waist and pulled him away from the counter and toward the front room. “Come ‘ere.”

Dean followed without complaint. He was drained from the sex and cocooned in the haze of too much whiskey too fast, so he just let Sam tug him along until he landed on the couch. Sam sat down beside him, then pulled his legs up and wiggled clear into the back of the cushions. He held his arms out.

“Dude. No,” Dean said, making to get up, or at least slide into the floor. He’d slept on worse.

Sam pulled at his arm. It wasn’t a grip Dean could shake, especially not in this state. He sighed, heavily annoyed, but leaned over to the side and let Sam tug him backward until they were molded together firmly and Sam had flicked the blanket up and over them both.

Dean wiggled a little, trying to get his hip off the seam of the cushions. Sam tightened his hold and stilled him. “Just. Lay still.”

“You are such a girl,” Dean muttered.

“And you love it,” Sam smiled into Dean’s hair.

“Love _you_ ,” Dean whispered. 

Sam’s breath hitched a tiny bit at the confession, but he stayed silent and just readjusted his hold on Dean’s chest. They lay still, breathing evening out, moonlight just touching their shoulders before it painted stripes on the wood floor where it spilled between the curtains. Time passed and Sam was drifting easily toward sleep, probably for the first time in months, when Dean’s whisper broke the silence.

“Do angels come in fleets?”

Sam smiled, keeping his eyes closed against a surge of tears. “Don’t know.”

“Battalions, maybe? Or legions…yeah, legions sounds right,” Dean said sleepily. 

“Fleet, battalion, legion,” Sam murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of Dean’s head. “You’re worth every single one.”


End file.
